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Updated: May 1, 2025
These Mino-birds, I may remark, in passing, have a singular aptitude for acquiring phrases. "What'll you take?" repeated the Mino, cocking his other eye upon Herr Hippe. "Mon Dieu! what a bird!" exclaimed the little Frenchman. "He is, in truth, polite." "I don't know what I'll take," said Hippe, as if replying to the Mino-bird; "but I know what you'll get, old fellow!
All the oddities of trade seem to have found their way thither and made an eccentric mercantile settlement. There is a bird-shop at one corner, wainscoted with little cages containing linnets, waxwings, canaries, blackbirds, Mino-birds, with a hundred other varieties, known only to naturalists.
Hippe's store had been closed at least an hour, and the Mino-birds and Bohemian waxwings at Mr. Pippel's had their heads tucked under their wings in their first sleep. Herr Hippe sat in his parlor, which was lit by a pleasant wood-fire. There were no candles in the room, and the flickering blaze played fantastic tricks on the pale gray walls. It seemed the festival of shadows.
Instantly from the opposite corner came the old response, still feebler than the question, a mere gurgle, as it were, of "Brandy and water." Then all was silent. The Mino-birds were dead. "They spill blood like Christians," said the Wondersmith, gazing fondly on the manikins. "They will be famous assassins." Herr Hippe stood in the doorway, scowling.
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